He sat down amidst these tokens of her presence, and stared at the flame of the candle, sorely troubled in mind. What was this gulf between them, this feeling of severance that was so strange to his heart? Why was it that there returned to him ever and anon a suspicion formless, inexplicable, but which troubled him beyond measure? He strove to escape from gloomy thoughts by the aid of an old enchanter. He took his violin from its hiding-place, and began to play a tender _sotto-voce_ strain, which soothed his troubled mind. His thoughts drifted into a smoother channel. He thought of that grand discovery made to-night—a discovery which, at another time, he would have deemed all-sufficient for happiness: Lucille was not the child of the wretch his hand had slain. The comfort of that thought was measureless. Could he do wrong in accepting the evidence of those letters—in giving them this interpretation? Surely not. They seemed to point but to one conclusion. They told a story in which there were few missing links. It remained for him to trace the father who had thus abandoned his child. It would be a more pleasing task than that which Lucille had imposed upon him when she bade him seek for Ferdinand Sivewright. But why had this father—who from the tone of his letters seemed to have been fond of his child—abandoned her entirely to her fate, and made no effort to reclaim her in after years? That question might be answered in two ways. The father might have died years ago, carrying his secret with him to the grave. Or it is just possible that this man, in whom weakness might be near akin to wickedness, had made some advantageous alliance after the death of Lucille’s mother, and had deemed it wise to be silent as to his first marriage, even at the cost of his daughter’s love. Thus reasoned Lucius as he played a slow pensive melody, always _sotto voce_. Thought and music together had beguiled him into forgetfulness of time. The clock struck nine while he was still playing. He put down his violin immediately, left the lighted candle on the table, and went out to the back door. Mr. Wincher was there before him, the door open, and two men standing on the threshold. ‘We’ve got our orders from Mr. Otranto, sir,’ said the elder of the two. ‘I’m to stop all night in the room that contains the vallibles, and my mate is to be in and out and keep a hi upon the back premises. But if you have anything you’d like to suggest, sir, we’re at your service.’ ‘No,’ said Lucius; ‘I’ve no doubt Mr. Otranto knows his business a great deal better than I do. Come with me, Mr.—’ ‘Simcox, sir. My mate is Joe Cleaver.’ ‘Come with me then, Mr. Simcox, and I’ll show you the room that needs watching. Mr. Cleaver can stay in the kitchen. I daresay he can make himself comfortable there.’ ‘Purvided he isn’t timid of beadles,’ interjected Mrs. Wincher; ‘which the crickets are that tame they plays about the table while we’re at supper.’